Freya sighed. "You know it isn't! It's hardly an option if someone is trying to kill you. Anyway, how can I defend myself with a sewing needle? When violence is needed, it has to be done with skill. And if I want to live, I'll have to be like a Sephora!"

  Stuart wasn’t amused with the idea at all. The Sephora were violent brutes that instilled terror into all of whom they could. His father had once told him that the Sephora was capable of a thousand terrible deeds, and nobody dared to stop them, not even if the crimes they were committed were blasphemy. They ruled over the people in the realms with an iron fist, and nobody would dare to speak out, for fear of death at the end of a shivering purple blade was far more prominent than the idea of rebellion.

  It broke his father's heart. Stuart remembered that lesson well enough. "Freya,” he said, “if you want to know the true actions of a Sephora, you needn't look much further. The library will tell you all.”

  Freya gritted her teeth. "We're slaves, Stuart! We don't have access to the library! Neither does Mama!"

  "Auntie Chen might be a slave," he said rather casually with a shrug of his shoulders, "but we are not. I don't see any golden chains or braces around our necks. Do you?"

  "That's different!” Freya hissed, annoyed at the sly smirk that played on his lips “We're children of slaves. It’s the same thing. I can't buy cakes from Madam Tutelii's because of our status!"

  "Really? I can!" insisted Stuart, looking upon his friend in a rather odd manner. He genuinely seemed surprised, but perhaps he shouldn't have been. Madam Tutelii had always despised Freya's less than Ladylike behaviour.

  Freya spluttered in outrage, her maroon coloured eyes widened in utter fury. For why did Stuart, of all people, get everything he wanted? Many liked the boy, and with that came all sorts of gifts. She knew she had more than any other slave, but she certainly didn't have enough possessions to catch the eye of others. It only honestly annoyed Freya, because, on most days, Little Stuart Harding was perfect.

  "Well," growled Freya, "we can't all be like you, can we! I don't get cakes or precious books. No, I'm afraid that's just you, Stuart. Everyone likes you, even the slave Masters favoured you after Uncle Argent died!"

  Stuart rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I have better things to do," he muttered, gathering his books. He’d brought quite a few of them with him; he had a habit of taking his favourite books with him all over Haast. His father, Argent, had never seemed bothered with it, so such practices were never stopped. Most of the slaves and Masters seemed to express conflicting opinions on this. A future slave with intelligence and a pure mind was one to be feared.

  Intelligence had started the first rebellion; all the slave Masters knew that. Although it had occurred hundreds of years ago, that did little to prevent the fear that festered within their cold, bitter hearts. The greed had destroyed all that was good about them, and Freya didn't know this. She was much too young to understand. Even Stuart, with all his intelligence, couldn't grapple at the truth and how deep it ran.

  It wasn't merely because of their age, either; the adults had never quite understood how Haast had managed to thrive. For sure, they earned most of the money from slavery, but that was about it. Nothing else came from their dry wasteland of a home. In a sense, many believed they were doomed to fall, but such a thing had yet to occur. And Haast had been around for a very long time.

  The beginning of Haast was indeed a mystery. It seemed that all at once, the people were simply there. They had no explanation of their very existence, or that's what the stories said, senseless as they were. The actual theories weren't much clearer, and the history around their beginning was weak with no facts or evidence pointing to the truth. The people of Haast had to have faith in themselves, and to a slave, that was quite a hard thing to do.

  "Where are you going?" asked Freya, glancing at her friend in a puzzled manner. She scowled at the sight of the pile of books in his arms.

  "To read the Urbian Scrolls; they seem to be much more interesting than this," he told her. "Much more thrilling."

  Freya huffed, looking back into the stadium, where the two Sephoras were facing another man with blades that were long and sharp. Although they didn't seem to be getting along rather well, the men cloaked in grey were strung uptight, tense in a way she'd never seen before.

  The stadium illuminated their figures, and they glowed in the light. She glanced at the flickering torches, around her, offering warmth against her back. Night had come, and the Sephora was still there. Freya wasn't surprised that her friend had left, as they had been here for hours. Waiting and watching, yet the fighting seemed to have paused. The grey men eyed the other in caution; whoever this stranger was, they didn't recognise him to be an ally.

  Freya peered down at him from the old, stone stands. The stranger looked much like a Sephora, dressed in the same long robes with a tight belt that held another sword. But unlike Shivering Silver, it was black. Such a colour had never been seen on a sword before. The other on his left hip was white. But what caught Freya's attention was how they glowed. It was like magic.

  The men didn't bow to each other out of respect. This was the first thing Freya noticed, as normally, in tradition, a Sephora would bow to one another, or any slave Master, for that matter. But the man in the crimson red robes did nothing of the sort, and neither did the Sephoras. Freya thought it was rather insulting. If a warrior didn't bow; she knew it was a slight, similar to spitting on another and all they held dear. The three men must have been scowling beneath their highly held hoods.

  The crimson robed stranger held another sword in his hands. Freya knew not where it came from. The story on that was a mystery yet to be told.

  "They're the Wren twins,” whispered Anne from beside her. “I haven't seen them about that much, but everyone knows who they are.” Anne Fields was eleven years old, and Freya had known her for most of her life. She wore the most beautiful silks that could ever be found; her family were criminals who had fled from the mainlands. Andriis, as they liked to call it. She was stunningly perfect, and nothing could make Freya hate her all the more.

  Anne whispered these words to her friend, a younger girl with dark brown skin. She, too, also wore the finest of silks. They were blue in colour, with bright little beads dangling from the sleeves. Deep down, Freya wished for such clothing as that, but she quickly disguised her longing with hate.

  The stranger nodded her head, accepting the new information with a bright mind and a wide grin upon her thin, pink lips. The dark girl wasn't as pretty as Anne, but she did have lovely cheekbones. Or that's what Freya's mother would've said.

  The crowd that had gathered in the Stadium gasped in delight as the three men brought out their swords. The strange man wielded the glowing black sword and a normal thick silver one. They were beautiful, holding a sense of normality with magic. Freya held her breath as they jumped forward, and the two Sephoras glided through the air with such elegance. She could imagine them as birds, swift but efficient. They were a sight to behold indeed. It seemed the wonderment wouldn't cease, not tonight.

  The man cloaked in red didn't hold the same amount of skill, but he was good. That much was clear from the way he quickly dodged the swinging blades the twins aimed at him. They were all magnificent, and Freya would never doubt it to be true.

  Clang! They clashed once more. To Freya, it seemed as if they were dancing underneath the pale moonlight, and she couldn't take her eyes off them. She herself wanted to be just like that when she grew into a woman. Dangerous and stealthy, swiftly cutting down her enemies just as they deserved. Nobody would be her nemesis without falling upon her future blade. She was sure of it; that's how her life would go.

  The blade struck, and the crimson man fell onto the warm, dusty ground, sliced in half. There was no life left in him. He had lost.

  And the Sephoras were proud of their victory.

  The crowd roared in excitement, and many came out of their homes to see what was causing such a reaction. It wasn't every day the Sephora put on a show, but unlike the crowd around her, Freya knew something was wrong. The strange crimson man appeared to have come from nowhere, taking the two grey men by surprise. That, in itself, brought a frown to Freya's features. For who was he? And what reason did he have to appear?

  The Sephoras dragged the murdered man from the stadium, and not once did they look upon the impressed crowd. Freya didn’t feel impressed – more like afraid. And rightfully so, for not once in her life had she seen a man so brutally killed. For sure, many were executed on Haast. But never like that.

  The fear consumed little Freya, bit by bit, until it was all she could think about.

  The crowd whispered in excitement at what had just occurred, but Freya felt quite the opposite. Her stomach churned rather unpleasantly.

  "I've never seen them kill anyone before," muttered Anne to her giggling group of friends. They all grinned at one another as if the prospect amused them greatly. Freya could feel nothing but disgust.

  Anne spared a glance at the staring Freya. She sneered in her direction. "What are you looking at, slave?"

  "Don't you have anything better to do?" laughed another. "I'm sure your Master is waiting for you. Slaves like you don't have a place here amongst us wealthy members of society."

  Freya flushed in rage, her small fists clenching in the material of the pale cotton dress she wore. It held no beauty or elegance; it was what the child of a slave could only afford to wear. The five gossiping children before her were all of high status, and this much could be simply seen by gazing upon them. If it wasn't their clothes that gave them away, it was the attitude they so clearly expressed.

  Freya blinked away the tears that had begun to gather within in eyes. She turned her back on Anne and all those terrible friends of hers, and she ran. Freya raced through the dark and dully-lit streets, she ran from the fear that had consumed her. She could almost feel death breathing down her pale neck.

  Nobody saw little Freya run past, nobody except for death, of course. But he was always watching.

  Her feet ran as fast as they could take her, away from the madness that had occurred. The Stadium was where most of the blood sports were played, but she'd never truly seen anyone die in such a manner. Her mother had refused to allow the children near the Stadium when the games were on, but she permitted them to watch the training commence.

  Chen had frowned. "The Stadium is no place for a child. Let alone you, my heart. You will not like death, Freya. Not a single kind soul does."

  Freya had yearned to gaze upon the true fights just once in her life. But now she knew the truth, and her mother was right. It was brutal and barbaric. Freya didn't know the correct meaning for those few words, but she didn't doubt they were accurate, for her smart friend and mother used them quite often. Stuart and her mother were never wrong. They were intelligent, far more than she was. At that moment, Freya understood: her dear friend despised violence more than anything else.

  Now she knew why – but this didn't stop her dreams of gaining a sword. In fact, it only strengthened them. What would she do if another tried to kill her? The only defence that could be used was another sword against the striker. Yet Freya was a woman, and in a land where men ruled. she knew such a thing would be difficult to come by, but she would do it, she would!

  Freya's little feet ran all the faster, accomplishing a speed that even she thought was impossible. The wind ran through her very being, and it was almost as if she was the air itself.

  It spoke back to her, whispering secrets that had yet to be told upon the human tongue. It muttered horrible truths about Mrs Evans, the woman who lived on the highest hill.

  Freya had always been able to hear the whispers that rode upon the wind. And as a child, which she was, Freya talked to them as well. For they were her friends. Chen had only feared for her daughter, for she knew such a thing wasn't normal in the slightest.

  The wind swept through her long, brown hair as she ran down the harshly crafted steps that led to her home. They were old and ancient, and the ocean and time itself had eaten away at them, so there wasn’t much left. This didn't bother her family, for there was a door upon the cliffs that allowed entrance to their home. Not many took the old path, for with one brush of wind, you could be swept off your feet and over the cliff edge. Below, there was nothing but the crashing waves upon sharp-pointed rocks. Even at the age of ten, Freya knew she wouldn't survive the fall.

  Chen had often warned her daughter not to adventure upon the old steps, as they were rumoured to be cursed. The tales of Adam were created upon these very steps. It was where the first sight of the wailing boy was heard and seen. She knew nothing of Adam, not really. Like everyone else, Freya had listened to the rumours, but nobody knew the real story. Not even the wind had dared to whisper the truth. It didn't matter how much Freya begged, there was no answer to be found.

  She began to climb down the path, and the fierce wind bothered her little. It was always windy up on the cliffs of her home.

  It was cold; despite the bizarrely scorching heat that blazed across Haast, upon the cliffs of her home it always was cold.

  Carefully, Freya took each step to the back door of her home. It was a rather large building that housed three different families, and everyone had their own floor to live on. The Neills lived upon the top, which gave them a grand view.

  Freya liked to explore the rocks down below, even though her mother frowned upon it. In moments of great distress, it was where she went, as she felt the water greeted her kindly as did the wind. This was where she headed now.

  The deafening crack of thunder could be heard above. She licked her lips; the taste of sea salt was marvellous and felt like home.

  The rough steps came to an end, and the ocean was before her with all its beauty. She smiled, and it beamed back at her. This beautiful sight was sentient in all the ways it mattered.

  She closed her eyes with a sigh. Standing out on the rocks with her arms spread wide, becoming one with the wind as it flowed through her. In moments like these, she was as beautiful as the ocean she admired.

  The whispers began, yet again, crawling through the wind and crashing upon the waves.

  Until they stopped.

  Bang, bang! Freya turned in surprise at the sound of drums, coming from underneath the steps that led up to the first flat where the Wilsons lived. Down there was a cave.

  It was dark, much like the night sky above her. But there were no twinkling stars in that particular darkness. Freya narrowed her eyes in thought as she hopped off the old rocks and inched towards the banging drums with curiosity. They were loud and consistent, thrumming within the constraints of her own mind. It was utterly fascinating. And Freya could only see it as an adventure. Oh how she wished to do such a thing.

  Her life on Haast was dull, and offered nothing exhilarating. Stuart was only thrilled with the prospect of reading more ancient scrolls from the library archives, but Freya wanted more.

  The night wind began to howl, but even then, Freya hesitated. She knew nothing of the cave that had appeared before her. She had travelled to the rocks many times before, and not once had she seen the entrance. Something like that couldn't disappear and reappear; it wasn’t possible.

  Freya frowned, her legs slowly dragging her towards the darkness. The cave could be eternal, it might go on forever. She knew it would be a stupid and foolish decision to enter a domain like that. But her thirst for adventure and insatiable curiosity got the better of her. Her cold, nimble fingers lightly touched the wet rocks, and she flinched. Her lips parted in disgust; the rocks were slimy and grey.

  "Gross," she muttered. Ignoring the sensation it brought about, she merely stared.

  The cave was dark, but from here, she could see three different pathways to be taken. Freya curiously gazed upon them. Where did they lead? And what would she find? The wind brushed against her pale skin, and the drums began to beat.

  Bang, bang! Her trembling, pale fingers slipped from the slimy grey stone as she stepped forward, looking back briefly at the glowing pale moon. It brought life into the night, shining down upon her own pale skin. Freya was afraid; only a fool wouldn't be. The darkness shadowed over her pale form, grasping at her arms in an attempt to drag her under.

  She fought it, her curiosity against the great fear which grew within her chest. It was all-consuming, but she knew that to look back into the darkness wouldn't save her from the terror that grappled at her heart.

  "Hello?" she called out, eyeing the cave in caution. She was fearful that maybe something would reply back, but nobody did. All that could be heard was the echo of her voice. She breathed in, relieved. She really wouldn't have known what to do if a reply was made.

  She took one step in, her hands running along the wet sides of the cave. It looked to be a tunnel.

  "Huh," muttered Freya, as her fingers landed upon carved runes that had been placed into the old rocks. They were large and well crafted; that much was apparent simply by a single touch. They were unrecognisable to Freya’s eyes.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27